


Damocles Refuted

by YouWereSoAfraid (non_canonical)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, M/M, Murder Husbands, Post-Fall (Hannibal), They Flip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 21:05:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11997945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/non_canonical/pseuds/YouWereSoAfraid
Summary: Will worries too much, and being on the run isn’t exactly helping.  This situation isn’t sustainable.





	Damocles Refuted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hannibalsimago](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannibalsimago/gifts).



> A gift fic for [Hannibalsimago](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannibalsimago) to celebrate my 100-follower milestone on Tumblr.
> 
> Many thanks to [TiggyMalvern](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TiggyMalvern) for beta reading.

Will paces to the window for perhaps the tenth time in as many minutes.  As he peers out through the louvres, he’s glad that Hannibal insisted on restoring the original shutters: they allow him to see without being seen.  But there’s nothing to see, not even a passing vehicle to break the silence -- no, not quite silence, because Will’s pulse is roaring inside his skull, surging faster every time he flicks off the safety of his gun and then snaps it on again.  Will sits back down, in Hannibal’s armchair, this time, because his own is turned away from the door, and he’s jumpy enough without that crawling sensation on the back of his neck.

He pulls out his cell phone and thumbs it on, but the screen that lights up is blank.  That ought to be a good thing, because the phone is only to be used in one of two scenarios: ‘Help me’ or ‘Run’.  But if nothing is wrong, then why isn’t Hannibal home yet?  He’s eaten people for less grievous sins than tardiness.  But if something were wrong, Hannibal would have called.  Unless he’s been captured.  Unless he’s hurt.  Unless he’s bleeding out somewhere, while Will sits here, ineffectually fretting.  Unless, unless.  Will’s thoughts circle, round and round, heavier each time, dragging him inexorably towards the dark.

Headlights sear Will’s night-adjusted eyes.  He blinks away the bright spots that frustrate his vision, because he needs to see, needs to know -- and, yes, it’s Hannibal’s car, with Hannibal at the wheel.  There’s no one else with him, not that Will can see, but he waits and he watches as Hannibal opens the driver’s door and begins to stride towards the house.  There’s something in his posture, in the way he moves -- it’s not fear, never that, but a kind of tension, of agitation, that keeps Will waiting to see if anyone else will emerge from the back seat, from some hiding place in the shadows.  Will sees no one, and now Hannibal’s gone from his line of sight, but he hears the faint jingle of keys.  Will races from the room, skidding on the polished floor as he takes the corner, and Hannibal just has time to place his keys on the hall table before Will whirls him around.

“Will, I --”  The air gasps out of Hannibal as his back thumps against the wall.  Will pins him there for long, frantic moments as his eyes race up and down his body.  He sees only reassuring negatives: no torn clothing, no blood, no defensive hunching around an injury.  Nothing but faint smudges of dirt.  His vision blurs and overlaps as the evidence of his eyes does battle with the darker reality of his imagination.

“I thought --”  Will’s voice breaks a little, and then relief twists into anger: anger at his own weakness, anger towards Hannibal for putting him through this.  His fingers tighten to a bruising pressure, but Hannibal offers no resistance.  His eyes find Will’s and hold them, and the weight of his gaze is an anchor.

“I had a puncture,” Hannibal says.

Hannibal’s lips quirk upwards, and Will glowers at him, because this isn’t funny -- this really shouldn’t be funny, but his own mouth is betraying him, curling into a smile, and he snorts out a laugh.  Of all the scenarios that his vaunted imagination paraded before him -- images of the police and the FBI, of kidnappers and hitmen -- he never pictured anything as obvious, as banal, as a flat tyre.  Will drags in a deep, steadying breath, then lets it out slowly, feeling the riot in his veins begin to ease a little.  Hannibal shifts, thinking they’re done here, trying to leave, but the movement triggers something inside of Will, some animal instinct that jerks his muscles back into life, shoving Hannibal back against the wall and holding him there.  And then Will’s mouth captures Hannibal’s, hungry and demanding, and his hands are roaming downwards to fasten on the swell of Hannibal’s ass.

Will knows what this is, of course: funeral sex without the funeral.  But he doesn’t want to analyse, just wants to feel Hannibal’s body against his, to feel Hannibal’s lips part for him, welcoming into the lush heat of his mouth.  There’s an electric tingle that seems to ooze from Hannibal’s pores, and Will presses himself closer, soaking it up, feeling it spread through his own limbs to settle, warm and heavy, in his groin.  Now his heart starts to race again, and he anchors his fingers in Hannibal’s hair.  Hannibal resists, and maybe he’s only doing it for Will’s sake but it feels good -- it feels right -- to force him to yield, to expose that stretch of throat and mark it with lips and tongue and teeth.  Then Hannibal’s hand snakes down between them, his palm stroking across Will’s cock once, and again, and that’s all that it takes to get him fully hard.

“Bed,” Will growls.  “Now.”

He lays the gun down on the table.  Hannibal’s already halfway up the stairs when Will sets off in pursuit, and when he reaches the bedroom he finds Hannibal hanging his jacket on the back of a chair.  Will has no time for subtlety, no time for anything except shedding his clothes, and it would be quicker if he let Hannibal undress himself but he’s greedy for contact, for the living warmth of skin against his own.  He pushes Hannibal back onto the bed and wrestles with his belt, fingers clumsy with haste and need and the shaking remnants of fear.  He yanks Hannibal’s pants down to his knees, dragging his boxers along with them, and this would be good enough -- he could roll Hannibal over and hoist his ass into the air -- but he wants, he needs, to see Hannibal’s face.  

Will tosses Hannibal’s shoes on the floor while he’s toeing off his own.  Two pairs of pants and two pairs of boxers follow them in short order, and then Will is fishing the lube out of the nightstand.  He spends just enough time coating his fingers before he spears them inside, rough enough to make Hannibal gasp, but Will gives him no respite, just works his fingers in and out, twisting and scissoring until the hot clench of Hannibal’s body starts to give, and then to welcome him in.  Will slicks his cock, and he shoves Hannibal’s knees apart and pushes inside.

Will wants to take his time, to draw things out.  But what he needs is to fuck, to fuck relentlessly, to fuck until he’s silenced his fears and there’s nothing left inside his head but quiet.  So he drives into Hannibal, uncompromising strokes that have the whole of his weight and his fear behind them.  Hannibal grunts then, a deep belly grunt driven out of him by the violence of Will’s love.  And Hannibal lifts up to meet him, and their mouths find each other, and Hannibal’s kiss is all hunger and no finesse.  Will slows his pace, shifting his weight so that he can spread Hannibal’s legs wider, can hitch them higher, holding them in place with the crook of his elbows.  Then his hips are pistoning again, driving him in deep, and deeper still, because there’s no such thing as deep enough, and he can never quite get close enough, can never breach that final barrier of skin.  Then his rhythm is starting to falter, and their mouths are jolting apart, and Will doesn’t try to follow, just pushes through the final, frantic thrusts and lets his orgasm take him like the tide.

Will collapses, shuddering, into Hannibal’s arms.  He lets his eyes slip shut.  He feels the heaving of his chest, the fingers carding through his hair, the sweaty press of their bodies.  He feels himself shrinking, slipping out of Hannibal, and he gasps at losing the warmth of their joining.  He feels the stubborn core of his fear, withered now but lodged firmly in the region of his diaphragm.  And then he feels Hannibal’s cock twitch against his stomach, and when Hannibal wraps an arm around his shoulder and rolls them over Will tries to relax for whatever comes next.  The savagery inside of Will has always called to Hannibal’s own.  And that’s fine -- it’s more than fine -- and Will wants to taste his own desperation on Hannibal’s lips.  He wants Hannibal to fuck him like it’s their first time again, or like it’s their last.  And, really, any time might be their last.  If he’d had any illusions, then tonight ripped them away.

Cold air hits Will’s skin as Hannibal lifts up and climbs off, and Will turns his head to find him standing by the bed, unbuttoning his shirt.  Will has no idea what he’s playing at, not when he can see from the impatient purple of Hannibal’s erection that he’s ready, has been ready for a good long time.  But Hannibal continues to unfasten his shirt with slow, deliberate movements, and when he’s finished he folds the shirt up and puts it on the chair.  The mattress dips again, and now, finally -- but all that follows is another pause.  Will cranes his neck but he can’t see what Hannibal is doing back there.  He feels it, though -- oh, how he feels it -- when Hannibal eases his cheeks apart and slips one careful digit inside.  He works it in and out, slick and gentle and slow.

“Cicero tells how Damocles was given a taste of everything that he desired, but was unable to enjoy it.  A sword was suspended above him by a single hair.”

Will’s heard of the Sword of Damocles, but he really doesn’t see why Hannibal is giving a lecture on it, now of all times.  He doesn’t see why Hannibal is talking at all, in fact.  Then Hannibal slides another finger inside him, pushing deeper this time, brushing Will’s prostate -- and, god, that sparks fire through Will’s nerve endings, and his cock gives a phantom twitch.  But he’s too old for that, and the last few years have been so many miles of rough road.

“Damocles begged to return to a humbler life that had no danger.  That was the intended moral of the story, but I prefer to draw a different conclusion.”

Hannibal adds a third finger now, working him open, and his earlier desperation echoes through Will: the urge to connect, to anchor himself so firmly in the present that he can hold the future at bay.  And surely Hannibal must be desperate by now, must want to be inside just as badly as Will wants him there.  Hannibal does: he steadies Will’s hips and eases himself inside with one long, delicious thrust.  The world whites out around him, and there’s only the glorious fullness of Hannibal’s cock inside him.  It still gets him like this sometimes, at moments like this: a dizziness, as though he’s melting, evaporating, leaving his body.  Then Hannibal’s fingers thread through his, grounding him with a gentle squeeze.

“Death is inevitable.  Only the details change.”  Hannibal slides out, one unhurried inch at a time, before pushing back in.  “That knowledge should remind us to enjoy what we have, not overshadow it.”  Hannibal continues to thrust in lazy punctuation of his words.  “I will not give up what I want merely because it comes with a price.”

Will doesn’t answer, just  surrenders to the moment, to Hannibal’s voice, to the slow slide of his cock, joining them together, filling him over and over, until the past and future fall away, meaningless and forgotten, because there’s only the here and now.  There’s only the two of them, and they might have a decade or they might have a day, but it would be insanity to waste what time they have.  But philosophy cannot hold out forever in the face of biology, and Hannibal’s hips begin to stutter, and his fingers tighten their grip, and he gasps Will’s name as he comes.

They lie side by side, fingers tracing languorous patterns on cooling skin.  Will brushes Hannibal’s mane from his face and he looks into his eyes -- looks through them, and down into Hannibal’s heart.  Something releases inside of Will, the stubborn knot of fear under his ribs bursting, or melting, and he is left with the strangest sensation that they have all the time in the world.  Or all the time that matters.  And maybe there’s a sword suspended above them, a sword that’s poised at the end of a single hair, but if Hannibal can sit down beneath it and enjoy the feast, then Will can too.

   



End file.
